The Last Heiress (31 page)

According to sailors on the docks, the Yankee gunboats beyond Bald Head Island were thicker than ticks on a hound dog. That didn't bode well for ever seeing Captain Hornsby and the
Countess Marie
, or his share of the substantial profits from the last shipment. He had loaded the
Countess Marie
with so much cotton the crew would have to sleep standing up on the voyage. Hornsby was supposed to transfer the cargo onto vessels bound for Europe and return with a load of artillery from German foundries. That had been almost six weeks ago.

Certainly the crossing could take several weeks in each direction if a storm blew them off course, but Jackson had had a sour taste in his mouth since agreeing to Hornsby's strong-armed terms. He should have taken whatever beating the thugs dished out and not yielded to that pirate's demands. Now Hornsby had stolen three thousand pounds of first-rate cotton, which he could easily sell to a European buyer. He never should have struck a
bargain with the devil. Hornsby had no loyalty to the cause and didn't care that the Confederate army was desperate for guns.

But given enough opportunity, Jackson could make up for Hornsby's thievery. The
Roanoke
and the
Lady Adelaine
were proving themselves worthy of their exorbitant price because each could hold five thousand bales of cotton. It was his conversation with Judge Stewart that ruined his evening of relaxation. And this was one time he wouldn't allow Abigail to interfere with his dealing with his sister-in-law.

Jackson found his butler asleep by the door when he entered the house. “Amos,” he said, tapping the man's arm.

“Master Henthorne, I was waiting for you, sir, but my eyes closed of their own accord.” Amos pushed up from the chair.

“Where is Mrs. Henthorne?” Jackson tossed his hat and gloves on the round hall table.

“She retired for the evening, sir.” Amos smoothed down his grizzled hair.

“And Miss Dunn. Where is she?”

Amos cocked his head in confusion. “I suppose she's in bed too, sir.”

“Find Josie. Tell her to inform Miss Dunn that she is to dress and join me in the library.” Jackson shrugged off his coat, dropping it on the vacated chair.

Amos stepped closer and whispered, “Sir, it's past eleven o'clock. Miss Dunn may be sound asleep.”

Tamping down his irritation, Jackson spoke through gritted teeth. “I am aware of the time, but there is a matter of upmost urgency. Mrs. Henthorne is neither to be awakened nor informed of this meeting tomorrow. I suggest you make that crystal clear to Josie as well.”

“Yes, sir. I will tell her.” Amos shuffled down the corridor and out the door on stiff legs.

One set of steps led to the subterranean kitchen, another led to the courtyard, gardens, and slave quarters. Needless to say, Josie would approach Amanda's suite from the second floor gallery. The girl always avoided Jackson whenever possible, even though he had never lifted a finger against her or any other female slave.

With the butler gone, he had a few minutes to compose his thoughts and sip a glass of bourbon. But the strong spirits did little to calm his nerves. If anything, they fanned a small flame into a blaze of indignation.

“Jackson, did you really send for me at this hour?” A haughty voice spoke behind him. Amanda stood in the doorway in a prim dress, buttoned up to her throat. Her hair hung loose down her back and her feet were bare.
So like the wild child twin not to plait her hair and cover her unsightly feet.

“Yes, I summoned you.” He strode to the sideboard to refill his glass.

“What's wrong? Has something happened to my sister…or the baby?” Her expression changed to pure terror.

“Everything is fine with Abigail. And I intend to keep it that way, despite your continual efforts to upset this household.”

“Perhaps you will explain what couldn't wait until the light of day.” Though she sounded composed, a nervous tic appeared in her cheek.

“I spoke with your good friend Judge Stewart tonight at the club.”

“Judge Stewart is
your
friend, Jackson. He and I are mere acquaintances, although I have grown fond of his lovely wife,” she said, settling at one end of the sofa.

“My, aren't you a cool one?” He took a gulp of his drink. “Miles informed me of your mission of mercy in August. You showed up at his home uninvited under the auspices of a social call but with a personal agenda in mind.”

“Rosalyn had extended an invitation, which I accepted on behalf of Abigail and myself.” Amanda crossed her ankles, tucking her loathsome toes beneath her skirt.

“How long were you there before asking the judge to release your paramour from jail?” He reached her side of the room in a few strides.

“I made polite conversation for about an hour before deciding it was time to rectify an injustice,” she murmured, as though discussing the likelihood of rain.

Jackson stared at his sister-in-law, who possessed more bravado than most men. “You considered the arrest of Nathaniel Cooper, your favorite shopkeeper, an
injustice
? Why would you draw such a conclusion?”

“Nate won't bear arms to preserve the evil institution of slavery, but he is no traitor to North Carolina and doesn't deserve to be thrown into the stockade at Fort Fisher for not enlisting. Plenty of
others
haven't responded to the call.”

Jackson was taken aback by her quick wit. “You implied to Judge Stewart that Cooper worked for me, which is a total falsehood!” Though he felt like shouting, he hissed the words. The last thing he needed was to awaken his wife.

Color flooded Amanda's face. Perhaps he had finally hit a nerve. “Judge Stewart drew that conclusion on his own because you are my brother-in-law and he knows I'm sweet on Mr. Cooper.” Her blush deepened with the admission. “I should, perhaps, have corrected his assumption, but my emotions prevailed over my better judgment.” She focused on the carpet as if suddenly beset by humility.

“Did you think your heartfelt confession would garner either pity or indulgence from me? I'm well aware that you have been sneaking out to see him despite my introductions to far more qualified candidates. I also know Abigail gave Salome permission
to shop again at Cooper's despite my preference for Baxter's, and that Cooper paid an afternoon call here.”

Amanda fixed her gaze on the potted plant by the window.

“My wife doesn't want your reputation ruined should you come to your senses about this infatuation.”

“No, Abigail remembered being in love with a man her parents found unacceptable—
you
, Jackson. Papa hated you because you were American, and yet my sister is happy and as much in love as the day you swept her off her feet.” Amanda offered him the smallest of smiles.

Jackson dropped into a chair, suddenly too weary to remain upright. “Thank you for your correct assessment. I love your sister more than anything in the world and I will stop at nothing to make her happy. That is why I overlooked your…indiscretions…at Cooper's store, his home, and in my garden. But he is not who you think he is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Judge Stewart approached me at the club tonight. He has friends in the militia, men he respects and who respect him.” Jackson pulled a folded piece of newspaper from inside his coat. With his index finger he pointed to an article. “Railroad tracks torn up, bridges north of here burned, telegraph wires cut—all in the dead of night. This isn't the work of Union troops but a devious band of anarchists who have been wreaking havoc around Wilmington. They have disrupted the flow of supplies between the port and Richmond, along with dispatches between Fort Fisher and Generals Lee and Johnson. These hooligans are bent on destroying Southern society, the society that by your own admission has made your sister content.”

“What does this have to do with Nate?”

“Cooper is a member of that group of anarchists.”

Amanda jumped to her feet. “That's ridiculous! He has a shop
to run from dawn to dusk. He has no time for midnight raids and no desire to destroy Wilmington commerce. Think about the nature of his business if not his loyalty to the South.”

Jackson held the newspaper out to her. “Read the article for yourself. A detachment of cavalry on patrol stumbled upon this band last Saturday night. A gunfight prevailed and several traitors were killed. Two of the dead men were recognized by members of the militia, including one by the name of Mason Hooks.” He studied her face carefully. “Do you recognize the name? Because members of the militia remembered Hooks and the other dead man talking to
your Mr. Cooper
in a tavern not long ago.”

Amanda pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “There must be some logical explanation. I know Nate to be a man of honor. And he doesn't drink. Jackson, this is a mistake—”

He sighed impatiently, cutting her off. “Go to bed, Miss Dunn. In the morning perhaps a clearer head will prevail and you will know what action to pursue. A man like Cooper will not advance your all-important mission of saving Dunn Mills.”

Thirteen

A
manda quickly discovered it wasn't easy to conduct business on a moral high ground, at least not in North Carolina, while America was embroiled in a bloody war. Not one warehouse contained, or one Wilmington factor had access to, cotton picked solely by free hands. Her brother-in-law wasn't the only cotton factor supporting slavery in the Carolinas. Yet each letter from Charles Pelton was always the same:
Dunn Mills needs all the raw materials you can provide.

And, apparently, her mother's financial requirements hadn't diminished since her father's passing. Mama's complaints about the social obligations for a widow in Manchester had become relentless.

Amanda had fully intended to implement changes before seeing Nate again. But despite her good intentions, she had little choice but to do business with Jackson until Mr. Pelton contacted potential suppliers in South America. Her shopping excursion to
Cooper's last week yielded no poignant reunion with the proprietor. A hand-painted sign indicated that the store was “Closed Until Further Notice.” Salome decided that Baxter's, well away from the waterfront, would receive the Henthorne patronage once again. Amanda yearned to pay a visit to the Simses on Castle Street, yet she knew that Abigail wouldn't approve.

But it had been two weeks since Nate's afternoon visit to the rose garden, and following Jackson's ridiculous accusation, she couldn't wait another day to see him. The idea that Nate could be involved with a band of lawless anarchists would be humorous if not so frightening.

Amanda wrapped a heavy shawl around her shoulders and slipped out of the house as soon as she and Abby finished breakfast. Because her sister usually took a long bath and then read for hours in her room, Amanda's absence wouldn't be noticed until luncheon. The brisk walk in the cool air exhilarated her, lifting her spirits and lessening her burdens. When she discovered the door to the store ajar, Amanda practically burst into song.

“How long have you been open for business?” she crowed as she crossed the threshold. Then she caught the whiff of a foul odor and spotted Nate's shocked face at the same moment.

“Wait there, Amanda, and I'll join you. You don't want to get lye soap on your shoes.”

She ignored his warning and entered the shop she'd grown so fond of. “Goodness, what happened here? Was this due to that flood two weeks ago? I couldn't fathom why your market was closed. Jackson mentioned that the river had overflowed its banks, but his home only suffered a soggy garden for a few days. Even the stone floor of Salome's kitchen remained dry.”

Nate shucked off his heavy gloves on his way up the aisle. “That's the difference between mansions on the hill and businesses along the waterfront. Even the shops on Market suffered only
dirty sidewalks and streaky windows.” Pulling off his soiled apron, he draped it over a rung of the ladder. “How are you? You're a sight for sore eyes on this less-than-auspicious occasion.” The smile filling his face warmed her heart.

“I am well, thank you. I didn't realize you suffered this much damage. What is that smell?” She pulled a handkerchief from her bag.